


Evening

by MadTheLine



Series: Twenty Four Hours [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dogs, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Pet Names, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 03:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13673751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadTheLine/pseuds/MadTheLine
Summary: John and Sherlock took their sweet time. All that's left is for them to fall together....This was what happiness felt like.“You are my family, John.” The words rolled off his tongue so easily, it was if they had been waiting there all along.





	Evening

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Daybreak and will make the most sense if you read that first. That being said, you can totally read this without reading Daybreak. The TL;DR for that fic is that they adopt a puppy named Toby who is super cute. 
> 
> Just a lil bit of fluff. I hope you like it!

 

John snored loudly in his armchair, Toby resting on his lap.

Dancing light from the hearth caught his hair in a golden shine, his warm complexion almost red in the light of the fire. For the most part, 221B was cast into shadow, save for some dusk light filtering in from the street, which only increased the incandescent glow which suffused Sherlock with warmth.

Sherlock played his violin calmly, a soothing, slow hymn that matched the tempo of John’s regular breathing. Almost without realizing, he’d shifted into composing, following John’s snores unconsciously. The crackling of the fire informed his performance as well, the dancing beat of the light guiding his riffs and the leaping of the flames pushing him up an octave.

He paused occasionally to write a section down if he liked it, scratching away on some pre-lined paper set up on his stand.

Fingers lifting lightly to shift to a higher position, the notes wafted and waned, not without sadness, but not without hope either.

 

Something about the violin eased the tension inside of Sherlock. Where Sherlock failed to communicate his feelings in words, his fingers could always find the proper notes, the minor key that expressed what his mouth couldn’t. The sentences might not be as exact as Sherlock preferred to be in most aspects of life, but maybe music wasn’t meant to be exact. Maybe, this was the one area of Sherlock’s life where he preferred not to reveal the mystery.

John.

john.

J  
O  
H  
N  
.

Always John. John, the mystery Sherlock would never solve.

Why him?

Sherlock had asked himself that question a thousand times. And the question had a thousand answers.

John snored loudly. Toby pawed at John’s thigh, covered with John’s favorite knit blanket.

Sherlock’s middle finger vibrated a G on his E string, delicately drawing out the reverberations as slowly as possible.

Where had all this sentiment come from? Sherlock knew, he always knew and it always came from the same place. Mycroft knew, Moriarty knew, hell even Mary had known. She had always teased him, sometimes cruelly, sometimes in jest, but deep down Sherlock had known. Mary knew how Sherlock felt about John. She had never said anything, and it hadn’t made things awkward between them, but sometimes Sherlock wished she had. If there was anything Sherlock couldn’t stand, it was not knowing where he stood with someone. He had never known where he stood with Mary.

But all of that was over now. Mary was gone. Sherlock and John were together again.

And they were together now.

Weren’t they?

Sherlock thought over the events of that morning.

Sherlock’s lips ghosted over John’s.

“We saved each other,” Sherlock agreed.

It was like a kiss. Basically a kiss. About as almost as one could get to a kiss.

John grasped Sherlock by the chin and Sherlock inhaled sharply. John’s lips slid to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, where he pressed the briefest of caresses, before he tilted Sherlock’s face forward, placing a kiss on the outside corner of Sherlock’s eyelid. He lingered there a moment, and Sherlock blinked, his eyelashes fluttering over the curve of John’s lower lip.

Sherlock’s heart had never pounded so quickly before in his life.

John took a deep breath and pulled back. He held Sherlock’s hand, pulling him up to the top step of the stoop of Baker Street.

Sherlock could almost taste his own disappointment.

“Come,” John had smiled at him. That blasphemous smile. “Let’s go inside.”

And the moment had ended. They had gone inside, prepared Toby’s puppy formula, introduced the little booger to Mrs. Hudson who promised to spoil him rotten, and gone on with their day.

Sherlock insisted they build a fire when John complained about the state of his frozen toes as usual. They had whiled away the afternoon variously uploading a blog post (John), doing laundry (Sherlock), cooking dinner (John), experimenting on John’s dirty socks (Sherlock), and laughing over a couple of bad episodes of Doctor Who (both of them). It had been a full day, particularly after Toby had woken from his long nap and recovered enough to engage in a bit of play with Sherlock. John dozed off in front of the fire while reading, and Sherlock retired to his violin as he tended to do on long winter nights when he didn’t have a case.

And as Sherlock tended to do when he didn’t have a case, Sherlock was left to think about the things the cases pushed aside and distracted him from. Things like John.

Oh, John.

He had no idea of the depths to which Sherlock would go for him. After Mary, there was little Sherlock didn’t do for John--he made sure he was attentive, bordering on fussy in how careful he was with John.

John had little idea, however, of how far Sherlock had already gone for him. He thought of the long white marks on his back. He thought of that dark place and the men who’d held him captive and his bow slipped, string squeaking in complaint.

“Sherlock?”

He was awake.

Sherlock turned around, already placing his violin on the desk, his bow on the music stand.

John had that look in his eyes that frustrated Sherlock to no end, but that he could not help but adore anyways.

He looked at Sherlock with such naked affection, with almost patronizing fondness, and Sherlock wanted to shout at him. Wanted to finally demand to know what he meant by that look.

Does it mean you love me?

Does it mean you want more?

Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of John’s armchair, petting Toby as an excuse not to meet John’s gaze.”Yes, John?”

“Come here.” John yawned.

“I’m right here, John.” Sherlock met his blue gaze finally, and Toby licked Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock lifted him off John’s lap and his tiny tail wagged at being in Sherlock’s arms again.

“No, you’re not. You’re so very far away, my love.” And there was that look again, that look that filled Sherlock to the very brim with hope, which made his walls crack, and he overflowed with emotion. Sherlock knew it was visible, but he somehow couldn’t stop the bleeding.

He felt his eyes fill, and John ran his hands through, Sherlock’s hair. With his other hand he tapped in between Sherlock’s eyes. “You disappear, and I always fear I won’t be able to reach you in there.”

“John.”

“There you are.” John whispered, his soothing voice suddenly hoarse. He went to pull his hand back, but Sherlock grasped it in his own, and pulled it to stroke his cheek, as John had so lovingly done that very morning.

“John, you will always be able to reach me,” Sherlock squeezed out. “Always you.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” And John was pulling Sherlock out of his crouching position in front of him, careful to mind the small creature he carried, pulling him up and towards John until Sherlock perched awkwardly on one of John’s knees, his long legs curled across John’s other thigh. Sherlock settled Toby in between them on his own lap, and laughed when the puppy kicked out, his foot catching Sherlock in the stomach, nuzzling into John’s chest.

Sherlock looked up from Toby’s shenanigans and caught John watching him amusedly. He smiled back, no longer uncertain, and wound an arm behind John’s neck, pulling their foreheads together abruptly. John’s arms wrapped around Sherlock and rested on his lower back, helping to balance him. They were warm through Sherlock’s nightgown, and Sherlock shivered at the contact.

John sighed contentedly, and closed his eyes and Sherlock followed suit. This was all he had ever wanted.

This was what happiness felt like.

“You are my family, John.” The words rolled off his tongue so easily, it was if they had been waiting there all along. He didn’t need bravery. It was the easiest thing in the world to admit this to John. Sherlock trusted John not to hurt him.

“Sherlock…” John’s eyes were open now, and the shock of Sherlock’s admission left him stricken. Sherlock fingered some of the hair at John’s nape, loving the feel of the short strands slipping through his grasp.

“This is our home. You, me, Mrs. Hudson and now Toby. Our home.” The words had come, and now Sherlock couldn’t seem to stop their flow. He knew what he needed now, what he couldn't live without. “John, please.”

 

“I love you.”

 

John’s eyes glistened. “I love you, Sherlock,” he repeated, as though trying to ensure that Sherlock knew the words were for him and no one else. “I love you. I am in love with you.”

Sherlock didn't know what expression had taken hold of his features, but he knew his eyes were spilling, and that he was too overwhelmed to form words. He covered his own mouth with his hands.

“Oh, love,” John shifted, and placed Toby on the rug, where he wriggled over to chew on a rope toy in front of the sofa.

John pulled one of Sherlock’s folded thighs over his lap, and grasping him by the knees, shifted him forward until Sherlock was settled right up against John, legs open across his lap, their chests and stomachs pressed together. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso, enveloping him completely as Sherlock silently spilled his tears into the hollow of John’s neck, soaking through the fabric of his cotton t-shirt.

“I will never leave you, Sherlock. Never. I’ve been an absolute idiot. I see, but I do not observe. I never knew how you felt.” John’s strong arms soothed up and down Sherlock back, and Sherlock could feel something physically breaking inside of him and he let out a shaking heave, trying not to sob. “Oh, god,” John sucked in a breath, “What an absolute arse I’ve been. I got married, and I made you my best man.”

Sherlock wanted to tell John that it was alright, that he shouldn’t feel guilty. Sherlock hadn’t minded. He had just been happy that John considered him his best friend. It had been an honor to stand at the altar next to John, he wanted to say. He wanted to say that he treasured his memories of the wedding, that Sherlock had been grateful to be able to say in words how much he valued John. He wanted to say all of this and more, but instead all that came out was a loud sob as he pushed his face farther into the crook of John’s neck.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” John’s voice was wrecked. Distraught, he ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, entirely mussed and frizzy, trying desperately to calm him. “It’s okay, it’s okay, beautiful.” Sherlock’s heart leapt into his throat at the pet names. John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s curls. “Let it out, love, let it out.”

Sherlock was embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to start crying--John hadn’t even had a chance to kiss him, and Sherlock hadn’t even been capable of saying those three words back. Yet the tears had begun to flow, and like his words before, it seemed they had been pent up unshed, and once he started he wasn’t able to stop.

Finally he was able to push words to his tongue in between shaking breaths, “I--I love you, John. John--” Sherlock broke down again, this time on John’s name. He pressed his lips to John’s pulse point, the closest bit of John’s skin he could find, and tasted the salt of his own tears.

“Sherlock,” John shifted back, and his hand pressed at Sherlock’s nape, tugging gently. “Sherlock, look at me, please.”

Sherlock pulled up, slowly, not meeting John’s eyes. He knew he was a mess, snotty and ruddy and he wiped at his face with the back of his wrist.

“Sherlock,” John whispered. And Sherlock looked up, astonished to see tear tracks on John’s face. Unlike Sherlock, John’s tears were silent, dripping off his jaw one at a time, as he smiled, bittersweet. Light from the fire flickered in John's blue eyes, a hypnotic effect.

“We were both idiots, John.” Sherlock whispered, finally able to speak. He reached out and wiped away the tears tracks under John’s left eye, his thumb running over the smile lines that Sherlock so loved. Sherlock kept one arm wrapped around John’s neck, and the other he cupped John’s cheek with.

“Now that’s something I can agree with,” John joked, and they both chuckled and smiled at each other.

And then suddenly John’s lips were covering Sherlock’s.

And the flames in the hearth leapt, as Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat.

Kissing John was like floating in a sensory deprivation tank. It was like someone had finally turned off all of the hundreds of minute details and stimuli that Sherlock registered on a daily basis, running through his head at a mile a minute. His world had narrowed down to a single point of contact and a single pair of lips and his only thought was one name, one person. It was scary, how quickly Sherlock’s brain, usually akin to a bustling Tube station, had shorted out. There was only one train, one rail and a single passenger.

John.

He registered maybe ten seconds after it happened that John had pulled back.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” John was concerned. Sherlock registered that somewhere in the lizard brain that had taken over in a fantastic coup. Yet he couldn't bring himself to care for long enough, because he was too busy grasping John by his shirtfront and pulling him into another, bruising kiss.

Mmmmph!” John’s expression of surprise quickly turned into a moan, as Sherlock began nipping softly at John’s bottom lip. John quickly took control of the kiss, tongue peeking out to lick at the curve of Sherlock’s cupid’s bow, before dipping to meet Sherlock’s own tongue. His hands on Sherlock’s back slipped lower to Sherlock’s hips. Almost involuntarily Sherlock shifted forward on his knees, straddling John’s hips and John’s hands fell even lower, massaging where Sherlock’s thighs met his bum, and Sherlock shuddered, moaning lowly into John’s mouth.

They broke apart, breathing hard, and Sherlock whined high in his throat.

“Hold on a second sweetheart,” John panted, hands still rubbing at the sensitive skin at the tops of Sherlock's legs through his pyjama pants. “Are we going too fast?”

Sherlock shook his head fervently, neck flushing at the epithet, “Since when do I do anything I don't want to, John?” He smiled teasingly.

“That is true,” John conceded, “I know you want this, who wouldn't?” He joked, gesturing to himself. “But in all seriousness, Sherlock, I just want to make sure you're ready for this. It's been a long day, and I would be perfectly happy just kissing you and lying down next you, and holding you for as long as you want me. We have so much time, Sherlock. I’m never leaving your side again.”

And he had a point. Sherlock was inexperienced in many ways. Maybe it would be better if they took things slowly. After all, they had all the time in the world.

“Alright.” Sherlock nodded. “Let’s go to bed, John.”

John’s eyes shined. “Let’s go to bed.”


End file.
